Location: In a tiny, insignificant little town in one of the many States.

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“About six, seven years,” Javan said with a shrug.

“He was something of a rogue when he arrived,” Garmund said from across the table.

Javan raised his head and looked at him with a sort of pleading expression. Garmund just laughed. “I remember – the first year he was here, he borrowed Falco’s pipe – Falco was a hobbit friend of Eodwine’s staying at the time – and Javan ended up burning the stables down!”

“It’s not funny,” Javan said, going terribly red in the face. He rarely referred to that day, and his friends could not guess the deep sense of shame that he still carried when he thought about it. Garmund had been just a child at the time, and he likely did not recall the exact circumstances that followed, or the long indenture Javan had served afterward. He probably did not even know about the horses Léof had lost in the fire, or how long it took for Javan to repair the breech in Léof’s trust…or anyone’s trust, for that matter.

“It’s true,” he said, after his friends had had their laugh at his expense. “I was rather bad. I think I’ve improved.”